


Freaks and Geeks

by just_a_dram



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Groping, Kissing, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5637427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/pseuds/just_a_dram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon invited Sansa to the bleachers after school and there’s only one reason couples come to hang out here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freaks and Geeks

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the television show of the same name.
> 
> A _perfect_ [picspam](http://winterwindsart.tumblr.com/post/135599300203/jonsansa-freaks-and-geeks-au-inspired-by) was made for this fic by the talented winterwindsart, which makes this fic 200x better.

The pack of boys sitting on the bleachers facing the brown football field turns to watch Sansa’s approach. It makes her internally squirm to have all their eyes on her and she’s aware of each footfall of her moccasins. There’s not a girl among them, their lone female friend, Val, having ditched school earlier in the day. They’re all gangly, pimply faced boys, wearing dirty jean jackets and band t-shirts they probably pulled off their bedroom floors this morning. Except for Jon. He’s pretty much the most perfect thing in her messed up universe and there’s nothing she likes better than looking at him and having him look at her. Except maybe touching.

Being Jon’s new girlfriend—or whatever they are, because they haven’t actually _said_ —she’s an oddity among the school’s freaks, and none of them seem to know not to stare. When Sansa stops before them with her lower lip caught between her teeth, they all frown dumbly at her until Jon elbows Edd, and without instruction, the skinny kid stands, flicking a cigarette away with his left hand.

Sansa cringes at the disposed cigarette: they’ll all get in trouble if some teacher walking to the faculty lot comes over to find that smoldering in the grass. Mom said it was only a matter of time before she got in trouble, hanging around such a rough crowd, and Sansa doesn’t relish proving her right. Dad will be super disappointed if they get called into the principal’s office.

“Hey,” she says without looking any of them in the eye.

Be cool, she tells herself: it’s just a stupid cigarette butt.

She wraps her arms around her middle and squeezes in next to Jon. She can’t mimic Jon’s wide legged slouch, as he lets go of his silver belt buckle to slide his hand around her hip. To avoid giving everyone a free show in her corduroy skirt, she has to keep her knees together. She thought she looked cute this morning in the bathroom she shares with her little sister, but her knees seem really pink and knobby next to the dark mustard of the wide wale corduroy and she fights the urge to cover them with her hands, so no one notices.

She’s not especially comfortable around Jon’s friends. They’re gearheads, who like to get bent and listen to music she only just started to get into. Most of them are looking for an excuse to drop out of school. Except for Sam. He’s in her advanced literature class, and he actually raises his hand. A lot. Like Jon says, Sam’s a brain. Probably the biggest in the school, and while it might not be cool to try that hard, no one gives Sam a hard time without catching shit from Jon.

Sansa used to be the cheesy kid raising her hand all the time too, trying to get all the teachers to love her. She didn’t really like the weed she tried the once and doesn’t know anything about cars, but Sam’s almost relatable. Maybe she could get to be friends with him. If nothing else, Sam is proof that Jon’s friends are not all burn outs and losers like her mom believes. Jon’s not either of those things either, but it’s going to be hard to convince her mom of that, after they lost Robb to a car crash the night he was hanging out with Jon.

That’s how this whole thing between Sansa and Jon started. She stole her dad’s station wagon, drove across town to confront Jon, her brother’s childhood friend, to demand to know what the hell he did to get Robb to come out with him and why he thought it was such a genius idea to get drunk that night. She was acting kind of psycho, being totally unfair, but when she got to his house and his mom was nowhere to be seen—on a school night—and he gave her the record Robb brought over to listen to the night he died, her plans to cuss him out fell apart. Her life changed the night Robb died. It changed again the night she sat cross-legged on Jon’s bed. She might have cried, but it didn’t even feel weird to cry in front of him. Not when he was obviously so sad.

Sam’s the only one who says “hi” back before Jon busts up the group. “Catch you guys up later.”

Kicking at the underside of the bench, Grenn grumbles about no chick being worth so much trouble, and Jon follows up his dismissal with a “fuck off” that finally gets all of them off their butts and shuffling across the field. They listen to him—the unappointed leader of their group. But they’re teenagers and not totally reverential: a chorus of whistles and wolf calls accompany their exit.

It makes her blush. Everyone knows what they’re here to do.

“Sorry,” Jon says, pulling her in close until their hips bump.

The guys are always giving Jon a hard time about the amount of time he spends with her, and she’s not sure whether it’s because they don’t like her or because they want girlfriends of their own. Val says none of them can score and they’re jealous losers, but as much as Sansa tries not to care whether they like her, she does. It’s important they like her, because they’re Jon’s friends.

“No,” she says with a quick shake of her head. “I like them. They’re cool.”

Jon lifts his brows at that. It’s bad timing for her chirped, false assertion, when their attention is drawn across the field to the guys. The short one, Pyp, slips in a slick of mud left behind by Saturday’s football game and windmills his arms to stop himself from falling. He looks around, probably hoping no one saw him looking like a Scooby. None of Jon’s friends are what you would call athletic, which is fantastic, since Sansa has a fairly newly acquired hatred of jocks.

“Well,” he says with a squeeze to her hip, “if you say so, babe.”

He presses a kiss to her temple and Sansa turns into him. The smoke clings to the shearling on his collar, when she noses his neck.

“Hey, you’re cold,” he says, feigning shock at her touch with an exaggerated jerk.

It’s chilly out, but not _that_ cold.

“I forgot my coat.” It’s her dad’s, and her mom insisted it had to be washed last night, so Sansa has gone without her oversized, army green coat today, leaving her feeling more exposed than she has since the last week before she quit cheerleading and still had to put the uniform on.

“You want mine?” he asks, already pulling back to shrug out of his jacket.

“Thanks.”

He drapes the heavy jacket over her shoulders, and before he sits back, he leans in for a kiss Sansa has been daydreaming about all day. Maybe he only offered her the jacket to move in for the kiss or maybe it’s a matter of sudden proximity following actual thoughtfulness. If it’s the former, it’s those kinds of moves that would make Jeyne declare him an operator, but he’s not. As far as Sansa knows, he’s only had one girlfriend, Ygritte, and she is the type that would have told everyone if Jon cheated on her, so Sansa doesn’t think that’s why it ended.

Sansa really hopes he’s not an operator, because as dumb as it might be of her, she really likes him. For fear of scaring him off she’s not going to say it out loud, but it’s the truth.

It’s just a quick kiss. He hovers before her, his hands sliding down the length of her arms to tuck the jacket around her.

“Better?” he asks with a smile that says he knew exactly what he was doing giving her that jacket.

He doesn’t have to manufacture reason to kiss her. She hums her response, rocking forward to bring her lips to his again. Even after hours of making out in his car until her chin was pink from his stubble and both their lips were a shocking red, it feels new and exciting and she swears she could kiss him forever.

Guys aren’t like that though. Guys don’t just want to kiss. Guys want to come to the bleachers.

This time isn’t quick. This time he knows she wants to kiss. Really kiss. His tongue brushes past her lips and he tastes like cinnamon—spicy and sweet—like the Big Red he keeps in his back pocket and offers her a stick every time he pulls one out. Her stomach swoops, when he palms the back of her head and kisses her with that heart quickening intensity that makes her feel like the world is narrowing in onto just the two of them.

Just Sansa Stark, the former good girl turned freak, and her boyfriend—man, please let him be her boyfriend—kissing on the lowest bench of the bleachers, his mouth finding a spot behind her ear that sends goose bumps all up her legs and his hands feeling hot even through the knit of her shirt. They’re warmer against her bare skin. It’s only a sliver of skin that’s exposed by the rise of his hand up her side, pushing up her shirt no more than a couple of inches, but there’s something so wickedly good about his hand touching her skin that she can’t stop herself from whispering, “Shit,” as her head falls to his shoulder.

She fists his shirt. She has to anchor herself or she’ll slide right off the bench and melt into the ground below, when he tilts her head back up with a thumb to her chin and kisses her again harder, nipping at her lip. She tugs at the shirt and then splays her fingers out flat, pushing into him, asking for more, needing more. Her turtleneck stops the path of his wet kisses along her jaw and down her neck and she hates the thing, despite begging her mom for it not a month ago. His shirt is so much more practical, a row of pearl buttons waiting to be undone. It’s softer too. The plaid is as soft and well worn as his chest is solid underneath the press of her open hand.

He must be at least somewhat off balance too. One hand runs up her side until it plays over the band of her bra, his fingers tracing the silky nylon, seeming perfectly practiced and in control, but the other grasps her thigh, holding fast, maybe even a little desperately. The cups of her Olga bra are edged in lace. Too romantic for anything her mom would buy her: she bought it at the mall with Jeyne last summer, giggling about her boldness, but she only started to wear it a couple of weeks ago for moments like these. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but Jon appreciates pretty things. She twists in his grip, letting his hand skate under her shirt and over her breast. He stares, as his hand covers her, a shock of white scallops over her flushed chest, and she’s glad it’s as pretty as it is.

She’s even gladder of his thumb’s slow rub over her nipple, the nylon doing very little to lessen the sensation. It might even heighten it, she thinks, as she slips a hand around his neck and digs her nails in hard enough to elicit a throaty sound from him. It’s a good sound—needy and raw. He’s distracted enough from touching her that his mouth is slack, his breath ghosting against her face, their foreheads pressed together, and their kissing forgotten for the moment. Which is fine, because Sansa has to keep swallowing, her chest rising and falling hard at the tightness she feels low at each swirl of his thumb over her.

This is new. These feelings are new, and so far everything they’ve ever tried together has been nothing but good. It gives her the nerve to go further and do more.

She hums his name, and he responds with a low “yeah.” There aren’t words for what she wants, so she turns her knees into him and spreads them enough to entangle her legs with his. He must understand. At first he squeezes her thigh that much harder, and then his hand moves down her leg and then back up, sliding underneath the hem of her skirt, up over the round of her thigh.

“This okay?”

She nods, nudging his nose with hers. His thumb presses in like maybe he’s feeling as out of control as she is. Her power to think might be slipping through Jon’s fingers, but she’s already thought this through. “Do you have a rubber?”

His torso shifts back and his eyes dart over her. Something flutters in her chest. That _is_ what people do behind the bleachers, and not like Sansa’s been in this position before, but it feels like that’s where this is going. It’s what she assumed he had planned when he asked her at her locker after math to meet him here after school. She never envisioned this moment happening on the bleachers, but she’s okay with it. More than okay with it actually. It’s all she can do to keep from squirming against the cold bench to encourage his finger to slip under the thin elastic of her underwear.

“A rubber? Uh, not on me.”

“Oh,” she says, her stomach flipping with either disappointment or relief or some muddled combination of the two.

One of his work roughened fingers unfurls along her thigh until the pad strokes over her, wet cotton pressing into sensitive flesh, and she can’t help but say it again, “ _Oh_.” It’s disappointment now that floods her chest. Definitely disappointment. No. Something stronger than that.

She says something dangerous: “You could, um… pull out.”

Sansa thought it was stupid when girls said you couldn’t get pregnant your first time. It sounded stupid, but maybe they were right. The film about butterflies in health class wasn’t exactly informative.

Jon laughs, breathy and low, and she tenses at the sound. Nothing about this is supposed to be funny. The bleachers are one thing, but her romantic ideas about her first time can’t be entirely tossed out. Worse than his laughter, he pulls his hands away to brush his hands through his hair, leaving her sitting there like an idiot, her skirt and shirt all crooked, an obvious give away of what they were up to.

“What?” she demands, but he just shakes his head, that breathy laugh jostling his shoulders. She swats at his arm. “Shut up.”

“Sorry.” He winces. “But that sounds like the beginning of an afterschool special.”

“You must be watching sexier specials than me,” she says, straightening the bottom hem of her shirt with a jerk.

He leans forward, folding his arms over his knees. “The reality isn’t as sexy as you would think.”

Man, she can be stupid. Jon doesn’t have a dad. Back when Sansa still hung out with Jeyne, she remembers her friend telling her that Mrs. Snow was actually no missus at all. _Knocked up in high school and never married_.

Sansa’s throat tightens, but before she can squeak out an apology for being totally brain dead, he reaches across himself to squeeze her knee.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Just a little uncomfortable. Wet and uncomfortable, she thinks, rubbing one leg against the other.

“There’s no rush, you know. I know you’re a uh…” He tilts his head to look at her, his grey eyes squinting in the watery afternoon light.

Yes, she’s a virgin. Sansa rolls her eyes at the reminder. But it’s still sweet. He doesn’t say it with the mocking tone Val does, when she talks about the girls Sansa used to be friends with. Sansa’s heard both sides of it. Her old friends think they’re better than Val for having held out, and Val thinks they’re a bunch of rah rah prudes. What Val doesn’t know is that Jeyne isn’t a virgin and most of the guys who boast about Val are liars. None of them are what they seem on the surface, including Jon.

“We’re having fun aren’t we?” he says with the lopsided smile that’s so charming. “Kissing or whatever.”

Maybe she’s wrong about guys or just persistently wrong about Jon. “Yeah,” she says, feeling a twinge of heat burn her cheeks. She was wrong about why he asked her to meet him here.

He pushes to his feet and holds out his hand, the other already jammed in his pocket. If he thinks it disguises what’s going on behind his fly, he’s wrong. She’s glad he’s uncomfortable too. That makes it better, easier to deal with. She looks down into her lap to avoid being caught staring, her lips pressing together in amusement.

“Hey, I’ve got some bread. We could go to the 7-Eleven. Get a Slurpee or something.”

Sansa pulls his coat tighter around herself. “Sure.” A Slurpee sounds good. So does more kissing in the 7-Eleven parking lot. She really could kiss him forever, and maybe he wouldn’t mind.

She puts her hand in his, lets him pull her up, and though it isn’t cool and the guys would razz him for it, he threads his fingers through hers and doesn’t let go.


End file.
